


Skin

by daxsymbiont



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Dermatillomania, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daxsymbiont/pseuds/daxsymbiont
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set mid-to-late s5, while Odo is trapped in solid form. He develops a skin-picking compulsion and Kira provides treatment. Of a sort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesliecrusher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesliecrusher/gifts).



> Slight AU where the changeling baby does not give Odo back his shapeshifting abilities. This fic deals with mental illness, mostly in the form of OCD (scrupulosity and dermatillomania). Also self-loathing/self-harm/suicidal ideation. As a person who has all of these issues, I do not recommend that you deal with said issues as described here!!!!1 OK, good. Endnotes contain potential warnings/incentives.

It begins out of mere curiosity.

Solids are brittle. Odo understands this, but never before has he experienced it for himself. Their protective covering is a flawed precaution of imperfect biology; it is vulnerable to gouges, scrapes, cuts and bruises. He's far too used to his malleable form, which can easily bear all manner of treatment that would harm a solid. A changeling would absorb the damage and return to its original state. But this humanoid skin permits blemishes.

So the first time he mashes his fist too hard into the wall of his quarters -- his usual, instinctual response to frustration -- and feels the pain bloom across his knuckles, marring them with blotches of purple and blue… Well, you can't blame him for his fascination. This is an alien biology, an alien sensation.

He also doesn't mind it. Not really. It's a sharp, raw jolt to the roiling chaos of his conscious thoughts. As they say, it clears the head.

So the next time it bubbles up within him -- the desire to smash and break the self into submission, until it breathes a sigh of surrender and relinquishes its hold on life -- he experiments.

If you slap the face of a solid body, hard, it stings. Its eyes begin to water. If you dig the fingernails into its palms, they will eventually yield tiny indentations. If you pinch, it bruises. If you bang a body part against a wall it will acquire a dull throbbing ache that persists for hours.

And if you scrape hard enough, and carefully enough, the skin will flake off in delicate layers. The barrier meant to protect your insides can be removed, slowly, piece by piece, until you are left raw and open to die.

_Justice._

He realizes, of course, that this line of thought is foolish and melodramatic. But he's never before found a proper outlet for this violence. The savage, unabashed rage that lurks within him. It is ever tense and never released, self-directed and insatiable. It wants to consume itself.

It's a silly psychological matter, and he won't bother anyone else with it.

In his quarters, he raises his neck before the mirror. He examines the irregularities that span the landscape of his solid skin. He pinches and pulls and scrapes at them. It's not beautiful, not cleansing really. It's ugly. An ugly action that breeds ugliness. Odo is perversely pleased at the result.

The face, scalp and neck are most prone to imperfections. They breed patches of dryness and oiliness, disrupting the smooth expanse. The oily parts contain raised bumps that he can squeeze and pummel until they burst. The dry sections can be scraped at carefully until thin sheets of skin peel off, bringing with them the solid's blood.

He is surprised that blood lies so close to the skin -- especially on the scalp, beneath oily unkempt hair. The dirtier this body gets, the bumpier and grittier and uglier it becomes. It's fitting. The way he slowly degrades under his own hand seems like a cosmic punishment, a cruel but necessary joke.

After all, he deserves this pain, unlike everything else.

He is unfit to open these eyes in the morning and close them wearily at night. He is unfit to feel the strange strain and ache of his muscles, the heavy tiredness that settles in his bones. He is unfit to walk and speak and eat and drink. He was a barely acceptable changeling, but being transformed to a solid has filled him with a restless and all-consuming anger.

So he picks at the skin, nightly, exfoliating and exorcising himself. Odo is nothing. Odo shall suffer, then, and eventually he will learn. Doesn't need survival, let alone companionship. Let this be a lesson to you.

Teach yourself pain until you understand that it is the norm.

_She will never love you._

And he hates, most of all, how that's the crux of the issue. The curling savagery in his gut is never stronger than when he considers the Major. Because he shouldn't want, shouldn't _want_ \-- and there are objects following that verb, nebulous things he supposes he wants, but the sentence always stops there.

He shouldn't want.

Because, well, Odo is not thoroughly blind to how he appears. He knows the heavy, stalking step of his walk. He knows the grimace in his face and the low derisive growl that lodges itself in his throat. He knows he presents himself as a predator, entirely without intention, and he has no power to stop it.

_Still having trouble with social integration, I see._

_I integrate as much as I want to._

He'd snapped it out as though it were obvious -- but really it's a falsehood, borne of bleak necessity. Beneath his outer layer of blunt and exacting honesty, Odo is a reckless liar. He _does_ wish he could integrate; the desire gnaws away at him. But despite his best efforts, he can't.

And he will sacrifice DS9 to chaos and oblivion before before he will let on that he's not in control.

It's on purpose. Any official mental record will concur: he fails to integrate _on purpose_. This is his safety net, perhaps the only one he permits himself. It's the thin beige line between self-respect and screeching, clawing, wildly self-destructive chaos.

It's when the line wavers and blurs that he curls in on himself, miserably, his limbs stiffening and twisting until he is a tense vibrating ball. He pares away at himself, radially inward.

Then he stands before the mirror for long hours and attacks.

\---

Dr. Bashir is the first to know. Odo accepts that and is grateful, since it occurs in an impersonal medical context. Doctors are trained to be impassive. Their interaction is professional, untainted by personal bonds or concerns.

Even so, he avoids it for as long as possible. But when he wakes up one morning having barely slept, with bloodshot yes and a face and neck coated in peeling skin and streaks of dried blood, he reluctantly yields to the inevitable. He must seek a remedy, or appear as a monster in public.

It's not as though he has _no_ pride.

Dr. Bashir moves the dermal regenerator gently, repairing the scars over his face and neck, brushing aside his hair to reveal the cuts in his scalp. He makes no comment. When he is finished, and Odo's skin is smooth again, he gives Odo a look that is indecipherable.

"What?" asks Odo harshly.

"Well," says Dr. Bashir. "If this is a continual problem, you know, there _are_ medications we can provide. Self-injurious behavior is usually the result of -- "

"Thank you, but no," Odo cuts him off, and turns to leave with anger boiling in his gut.

"All right," says Bashir from behind him. His voice is loud and unaccountably brave. "Just come to me when you need the regenerator, then."

"Hmh," Odo grumps in response. He turns on his heel and returns to his work.

The second to figure it out -- blast his infernal meddling -- is Quark. He sidles up to Odo with the look of a wise counsellor, baring his pointed teeth in what Odo assumes is a grin.

"Constable," says Quark, his tone deceptively conversational. "You did this to yourself, didn't you? I didn't understand it for a while, but now I think I've cracked the code."

He points at the side of Odo's face, where new scars have asserted themselves. The night after Dr. Bashir repaired him, he dug into the clean smooth skin with renewed energy. It was doubly satisfying to defile that which had been restored.

"It's none of your business," Odo replies haughtily. There is no reason for Quark to be snooping around his private affairs. It's Odo's body, for Prophets' sake.

But Quark's smile is wicked and knowing. "Ah," he says, "so you _are_ picking at your own skin. A very admirable venture, in my opinion. One might even say -- a religious quest." He drops the sarcasm and stares up at Odo. "You're crazy, you know that, Constable?"

"Quite well," says Odo shortly. "Now stop talking. I've got work to do."

"Hmh," says Quark, with inordinate satisfaction. He makes as if to leave, then stops and turns back. "You know," he says, "if this continues, I might just have to alert the Major."

Odo snorts. "She'd never believe you, Quark."

"Oh, you don't know that," Quark returns. "The Major and I have a very special relationship. Besides, she'll find it hard to deny me if I bring evidence of your crime." He flashes a grin and sweeps out, leaving Odo to his uneasy solitude.

Fear is building icily in his gut, but he resolves to ignore it. Even if Quark did convince Kira -- what could she do? Barge into his quarters and demand that he stop?

 _She doesn't care,_ he tells himself harshly. _She doesn't care if you damage yourself. They're minor cuts; she hasn't even noticed._

The fifth time he shows up in sickbay, he senses that Bashir's patience is wearing thin. The doctor frowns and fidgets; he keeps opening his mouth to speak, but always closes it before sound emerges. He watches with an incredulous stare as Odo pulls his own uniform shirt over his head. He's been dreading this. The doctor will no doubt see he's getting "worse" and prescribe him something, put him through therapy, admonish him to stop the pain.

When the fact is, he can't stop anymore.

He knows this, with a crushing finality, in the back of his mind. He doesn't dare acknowledge it directly. But it weighs heavy on him, a grave and inevitable consequence.

"You've -- expanded your efforts," says Dr. Bashir awkwardly, as he repairs the scars that cover Odo's shoulders and back.

"Yes," says Odo.

"I suppose I shouldn't recommend any kind of treatment. Other than what I'm doing now."

"No. Thank you, doctor."

Scalp, face, neck, shoulders, chest, back. It's become a routine. It envelops his entire torso in a sweet, burning, long-lasting pain.

His ugliness bubbles up from beneath the skin, like a poison, to show on the surface.

It's his one act of brutal honesty. It is a perfect example of justice.

\---

It's a few weeks before it happens.

Odo is poised before the mirror, hunched forward in his dedication, lost in a haze of compulsion and purification. He barely hears the door to his quarters slide open -- but then there is her voice, ringing clear through the silence, and nausea rises in his throat.

 _Well, this will end it, then._ He steps back from the mirror and regards his shredded, bloody visage with grim satisfaction. It's a fitting conclusion, actually, to his pathetic infatuation with the Major. No doubt she will be repulsed, shocked at his habit and all that it implies. It doesn't matter whether she understands. Her seeing him like this -- it will ruin his chances, once and for all, and he can move on.

"Odo!" says Kira, advancing toward him. She is all warmth and light; he is ashamed to be in her presence.

But he turns, slowly and with deliberate precision, and faces her head-on.

He expects her to gasp, but realizes in a moment that's a disservice to her character. She just looks at him, her gaze fierce and penetrating, a range of emotions flitting over her face.

"Quark was right for once," she says finally.

Odo doesn't know what he's supposed to say. A trail of blood is trickling down his left cheek, tracing its way through the crevices there.

"Odo," says Kira, her voice thick with an empathy that pains him. "Is there anything I can do?"

No, he repeats to himself. No, no, no. His hands clench into fists at his sides.

When he speaks it's hoarse and gravelly. "No. I appreciate the offer, Major, but really I'm fine. This is -- a personal matter."

"But -- here." She reaches out and puts a hand on his arm, leading him to the bed that his quarters now contain. Solid furniture, solid needs -- solid failings. He follows helplessly.

Kira sits down and pats the space next to her, inviting him to sit. Odo mechanically complies. He keeps a few inches between them.

"Why?" she asks -- and her eyes are on his, those sweet and delicate eyes that blaze with warmth. "Why would you do this to yourself? I want to know."

Odo decides to put it bluntly and be done with it. He curses his own sentimentality. "I have always wanted to destroy myself," he says, "and now that I am trapped in solid form, it is finally possible."

He anticipates a reaction of pity, or disgust, or scorn. But instead Kira starts laughing -- and it's a jolt to his system, loud and clear as a bell. "But _why_?" she asks, as though the idea is patently ridiculous. "Why destroy yourself? I'm not saying you're without flaws, but Odo, there's nothing irredeemably _bad_ about you."

"Justice," says Odo gravely. "Justice and order." He clasps his hands together in his lap. There is no way to make her understand -- but that doesn't matter. It will never matter.

"Odo, everyone in the world is chaotic," says Kira gently. "You just have to learn to work with it." She shakes her head, still amused, her smile wide and full of life. Odo wants to shrink with guilt. He has failed to make her retreat in horror. She is her usual glowing self, and she finds him _amusing_.

"I mean," says Kira, pointing to herself. "You can't possibly think that I, of all people, have myself in order. Have you ever seen me try my hand at diplomacy?"

"Hmh," Odo concedes -- a rueful, appreciative grumble.

"Seriously, Odo," she says, and her hand reaches out to cover his and his throat constricts.

"It's fine for _you_ to be without order," he explains. He snatches his hand away, stuffing it beneath his other arm. "It's fine for anyone else, but -- you see -- this is a restriction that I have imposed upon myself. I won't understand my deserved punishment unless I myself enact it. You -- you're different. You've learned to work within chaos, as you said, and that's one of the reasons I so admire you -- "

He breaks off, embarrassed, figuring he's said too much.

Her brow is furrowed and she's trying to decode, trying to be a good friend, trying so hard and he just can't take it anymore. He stands up abruptly, hands once again turning into fists, and glares down at her.

"Leave," he says, and is surprised at the harshness in his voice.

"Odo -- "

"Leave me alone," he snaps. He's speaking too loud, too rough, and he doesn't care.

Kira stands, her shoulders rising and then falling in a sigh. "All right," she says. "All right." Despite the way Odo is glowering, nearly shaking with palpable anger, she stops and turns back at the door. "If you need anything," she begins, and falters.

"No," says Odo. Despair is spreading through him, outward from his stomach to his heart to his bones and extremities. He hates himself for refusing, but he knows -- he is absolutely certain -- that to accept her offer would be even more hateful. He would never recover from that particular lapse.

So she leaves. And Odo thinks how much he hates this tension in his veins, how much he detests growling empty threats at her, how much he hates this nasty and abrasive person he's been stuck in.

But they'll see each other in Ops next morning. They'll both be perfectly civil. And Odo is left, as always, frustrated and miserable -- without even the satisfaction of having driven her away for good.

\---

He no longer needs Dr. Bashir. He could let the wounds heal, cover himself in new and unbroken skin, but more often he prefers to keep them. He prefers a face made vaguely and unsettlingly grotesque. He prefers to garner squints of worry, to arouse barely-suppressed disgust.

"So," says Quark one day, "you're still doing it." To his credit, he doesn't sound surprised.

"A very astute observation," Odo returns, acidly.

Quark watches him intently, his eyes piercing Odo with a sharp compassion that Odo doesn't like. "Well," says Quark finally. "Just be careful, you know. As long as you're in one piece to work during the day."

"I won't disrupt your _pool_ again," says Odo derisively. He swivels in his chair, eyes on the PADD in his hands.

"Oh, no, I'm sure you wouldn't dream of it." Quark pauses, fiddling with his pockets. "Just, what I meant is, you'd better not go too far with this self-destructive jag you're on. It won't make for good press. And if I wake up one day to find you've stabbed a knife in your chest and humanoid blood is dripping through my ceiling, well, let's just say I won't hesitate to press charges."

"Fine, Quark," says Odo with as much snide dismissal as he can muster. "Now get out of my office before I report you for disturbing the peace."

"I'm not disturbing the -- "

"Quark." Odo swivels and looks the Ferengi straight in the eye. "Leave."

Quark makes a few perfunctory sounds of protest, but soon obeys. Odo sighs and leans back heavily in his chair, ignoring the warmth that spread through him -- gratitude, and relief, and _At least someone cares. Even if it is that little --_

He cuts himself off and returns to his work.

\---

Odo must be imagining it. Ever since he found and lost the changeling child, since the Major's had her baby and returned to her usual spry hyper-functional routine -- no, it's got to be coincidence. A trick of his obsessive mind. But he swears Major Kira is watching him.

He'll turn around and her eyes will be on him like a raptor's, sharp and uncompromising, as though she can see through him to the invisible and tangled contours of his thoughts.

It's got to be a delusion. He should stop looking at _her_ ; that's the only viable way to stop this insanity.

But that very afternoon the Major storms into his office, eyes blazing with a familiar fervor, and launches into a tirade before he can react. "Kindness has never been good to you, has it, Odo?"

"What?" he says.

She paces back and forth in front of his desk, swinging her arms, as if talking to herself. "You don't want _help_. You've never wanted help. That's all right, neither have I." There is a hard edge to her voice, almost a snarl. "Help is a dangerous thing, anyway."

"What," Odo repeats. He seems to have been divested of the ability to say anything coherent.

Kira turns mid-pace and faces him. Without warning, she slams both hands down on the desk, leaning toward him. "I want to apologize," she says, "for pretending we were -- two people other than who we are."

Odo stares, uncomprehending.

Kira reaches over the desk and slaps him, hard, across the face. It doesn't sting, because he hasn't told it to, but the force of the blow knocks his head to one side nonetheless. Odo splutters wordlessly, stunned.

Kira's face is alight with a cruel certainty. "I don't care how much you suffer," she says, and leans closer, settling her elbows on the desk. Her voice has dropped almost to a whisper. "Do you hear me? Everyone suffers. All of us suffer, every day. I don't care about that."

She straightens up. Her eyes are brimming with unshed tears. "But damn it, Odo, if you can't look beyond that -- if you can't find something else to put your mind to -- then I don't know how life is supposed to be worth living."

Kira gazes at him a moment longer and then strides out. Odo feels like a mug that someone's thrown to the floor and smashed.

\---

That night he stands before the mirror, his usual spot. He's discarded his uniform tunic, leaving only the pants and boots. The bare humanoid torso is familiar by now, scarred by his previous handiwork.

The flakes of skin and scrapes of blood and little sparks of pain have begun to flow, when he hears the door open and freezes in place.

"Constable," says Kira. Her voice is brusque and professional. It soothes his nerves, and just the idea of that makes him gouge fingernails deep into his shoulder. If it doesn't break the skin, you're just not scraping hard enough.

If it doesn't hurt, you're just not. Not what? Justice. Order. He's having trouble with the words.

Kira rustles around behind him -- pacing, again. He can hear her steady breathing.

"Tell me, Constable," she says, "if there's anything I can do." And this time it's not an offer; it's an order.

He's silent for only a moment before a sound escapes his throat.

"Help," says Odo. His voice is hoarse and broken, barely audible. He swallows hard and raises it. "Help me, Kira, please."

The next thing he knows the Major is behind him and she has a sturdy grip on his forearms; there's a strain in his shoulders as she pulls his arms behind him. She's got his own arms crossed and pinned behind his back; he can feel her breath release between his shoulder blades.

"Does this help?" she asks, her voice even and pragmatic.

Odo can barely bring himself to speak. He's not sure about the nature of the spark that flickers in his chest and travels down to settle low in his stomach, but it certainly isn't pain.

"Odo," says Kira, with a touch of exasperation. "If it isn't useful for you to be physically restrained like this, you need to say so, and I'll let go and we'll think of an alternative. But I'm wary of the idea of manipulating your brain."

He struggles to clear his throat. "No, this is fine, Major."

"Good," says Kira, still with that pragmatic tone -- almost aggressively practical, as though she can obliterate the sensitive nature of the situation with her own point of view. He's grateful, even as the solid heart pounds loudly in his chest, as if trying to escape its ribcage.

"Thank you," Odo manages.

"I can stand here as long as you like," says Kira quietly. Her breathing ghosts against his back. He tamps down a shiver.

Odo suddenly realizes that he's ceased to look in the mirror. He's not sure when it happened, but his chin has dropped to his chest, his neck hanging loosely downward as though it's exhausted its energy reserves. He doesn't dare lift his head. He has no desire to mar this moment with the image of his scarred, ravaged face and neck.

Kira shifts, and he assumes she's adjusting her position for her own comfort, but then he feels the fabric of her uniform against his arms and realizes she's pressed closer. Her nose brushes against his skin and he senses the ridges like an imprint, a burn. His shoulders are beginning to ache but she's got control of this, it's not him ruining himself, any pain is Kira and Kira is aggressively, resolutely kind.

Her eyelashes flutter against the curve of his back, where his spine shows in bumps under the skin.

"Odo," she says -- it's hardly a whisper, and her voice has changed somehow, not so calm anymore.

"Yes."

"You know I'm covered in scars," she says.

In truth, he hadn't thought about that. Not in this particular context, at least.

"I like this skin of yours," says Kira, so close that her lips move against him. "Do whatever you want to it."

Was that an order, a permission granted, a suggestion, an absolution?

Now her voice is hard and sharp again, staccato, violent in its surety. "Do whatever you want, Odo. I won't care. I don't care if you're covered in this mess, you -- you _idiot_."

She bites out the words, spits them against his back, and a jolt goes up his spine. The self-loathing that she'd temporarily stayed, for a few minutes there, comes roiling back. His hands twitch and clench into fists, wanting to carve and gouge patterns into his own skin.

Kira is quick, ever-ready: her grasp on his forearms tightens and she slides her hands down to his wrists, to gain an advantage over his strength. It reminds him of sliding a knot down a rope, seamless and practiced.

"No," she says.

"That's a contradiction," Odo objects. "You just told me -- "

"Do whatever you want," says Kira, undeterred, "but not when I'm here. You asked me to help you with this. I'll let go if you tell me, but not before then."

Her voice is so calm and reasonable and warm that Odo says nothing.

He doesn't, after all, want her to let go. He wants to snap his own neck and drive a stake through his heart and tear off his skin until his muscles are exposed -- but he doesn't want her to let go.

It's a moment before he registers that she's pressed fully against him now, fitting against the curve of his back with surprising ease. Her profile makes a face-shaped impression in his skin: forehead, eyelids, nose (ridges), mouth, chin.

"Major," he says. Does he mean to warn her away or urge her on -- he can't tell.

"Yes," she says. She presses his wrists more firmly against the small of his back; he can feel the ridge of her uniform belt, a break in the otherwise smooth fabric. His arms are bent even further this way and the dull stretch in his shoulders intensifies.

He doesn't have an answer for her. He isn't sure if that "Yes" was even a question.

Kira kisses his back, hard. He can feel the scrape of teeth and then the swipe of her tongue, over a patch of skin he's surely picked and marred beyond repair. He wonders if she'll accidentally swallow flakes of his skin.

"This isn't going to scare me off, Odo," she says -- and her voice is as hard as the press of her mouth, as determined and unyielding.

His body is tense and loose at once, shivering with a strange energy.

She kisses him again, again, layering the same spot with multiple impressions of her lips. Then shifts her head and bites down on his shoulder blade.

Odo squeezes his eyes shut and closes his mouth and wills himself not to make a sound.

It's a moment before he realizes that Kira is releasing his wrists -- slowly, slowly. His arms are still bound behind his back due to the press of her body, but her grip has moved off. She flexes her hands and sets them on either side of his waist.

"I didn't say -- " Odo starts.

"I know," says Kira, and there's a laugh in her voice. He imagines her eyes crinkling. "But I don't have infinite strength."

"Oh," says Odo. "That's all right." It sounds incredibly stupid and he chastises himself.

Kira does laugh then, pressing another lazy kiss to his back, and he's shocked when her arms slide around his waist so that she's hugging him tightly, hands curved across his stomach. Almost her full weight is leaned against him; she's warm and soft and solid. She nuzzles between his shoulder blades, the ridges of her nose catching a little, and Odo swallows hard because his throat is thick with unsaid words.

He doesn't know how to thank her.

"I'm going to let go now," Kira says softly, and releases her hold on him. He can hear her dusting herself off, behind him, smoothing the fabric of her uniform. Odo's arms stay positioned stiffly behind him, stuck there, until he remembers he can move them and cautiously uncrosses his wrists. He stretches the solid fingers, rolls the joints. He's sore from shoulder to fingertips, and it's entirely different from the pain of his own rituals. His arms drop limply to his sides, and he lets out a deep, rumbling sigh.

Kira chuckles, behind him. The entire time, he realizes, they haven't once faced each other; their eyes haven't met. He wonders how she knew and then decides, fiercely, that he doesn't care.

"Odo," says Kira, and the smile is evident in her voice like a spark of sunlight. She pauses, then reaches out and presses a palm firmly to the center of his back. "Constable," she amends. "Anytime, do you hear me? You contact me, and I'll be there."

"Anytime," Odo echoes slowly.

"That's right," Kira says. Her tone is sharp and decisive and brooks no argument. "Good night, Constable." She leans forward and kisses him then, her lips pressing quick and messy to the middle of his back. Odo's entire body buzzes at the touch.

Kira turns away then, and starts to leave but pauses before the door. "Anytime," she repeats -- and he can feel her eyes fixed on his back, even without the sight of it. "Do you understand?"

By which she means: It's a promise and an order, and I will accept no situation in which you need me but refuse what you need.

"Yes," says Odo. His voice is raw but he's flooded with a strange, deep relief.

"Good," says Kira. The door swishes open and she leaves.

Odo stands for a moment in silence. The tension has escaped his limbs, leaving only a heavy weariness. He pulls off his boots, mutters at the computer to lower lights, collapses on the bed in an ungainly heap.

He curls under the covers and sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> There’s ostensibly nonsexual bondage and mild D/s undertones here — I feel like you can opt in or out of this interpretation, but it’s there, so ymmv.


End file.
